


Fire or Ice?

by JonsaInTheNorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Love Triangles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:43:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/JonsaInTheNorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Queen is not the kind of woman to share her husband, so he must make a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire or Ice?

 

King’s Landing is not the kind of city he expected. Most of his life had been spent near winter town, surrounded in snow flurries and familiar faces. Once, his father-uncle had taken Jon to White Harbor. While it was bigger and busier than the town outside Winterfell, and most certainly more southron, it still felt like the North in many ways.

 _This city is strange_ , he thinks as he observes it from the balcony in the Red Keep. The ruins of the sept still smoke above the brightly colored buildings and the busy, crowded streets. Ships pour into the bay, bringing silks and spices from across the Narrow Sea. Essosi fashions are all the rage now, especially in the faction of the smallfolk that worship their new queen as if she is the Mother made flesh.

Jon pushes back against the railing, stepping back from the sun that pours down into his chambers. They are elaborately decorated, with carpets on every inch of the stone floor and ornate, carved furniture scattered around the room. This, also, is in the Essosi style. 

The splurges being spent to rebuild the capitol city do not sit well for him, especially with every raven from Bran about the repairs and new structures going up all over the North. The Lord of Winterfell has many ideas for buildings to improve the smallfolks lives, but not as many about how to handle the politics of paying for it. Bran may have done it well whenever he filled Robb’s role, but he would much rather spend time with Meera Reed beneath the godswood’s heart tree.

A knock on his door takes Jon out of his deep thought. 

“Come in,” he calls, and a servant, decked in new red and black livery, enters. “Does Her Majesty to see me?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” 

Another complaint to add to the ever-growing list of things he hates about the South. Everyone here is by-the-books about proper decorum; even Sansa is more formal whenever they are not in private. In the North, he accepts it when the call him “My Lord,” but never more. He may be a Targaryen by birth, but he is a Stark and Snow at heart, a former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and nothing more.

Jon follows the servant to the Council Chambers. Daenerys is a vision in red silk, a black belt tied across her waist and a reforged version of Aegon I’s crown atop her pile of elaborate white braids. She meets him with a smile, purple eyes steadily focused on his features.

“Nephew.” There is kindness in her voice, although it has taken him a long time to identify her different tones. Sansa was the one who discovered this one, a special voice left for him alone. “Come, sit, drink.”

Following her commands, he settles himself into a chair and pours a tankard of the Meereenese red she is so found of. “What is it you need of me, Dany?”

They are not formal with each other when they are in private. It comforts him, reminds him of the simpler days in Winterfell when Sansa ruled by his side and would not call him “my prince” at every turn.

“I have a decision that you alone can make.” The light from the sconces illuminates her eyes. Sparkles dance inside them.

“Yes?” He takes a deep drink, to let her information come out on her time alone.

Daenerys sets her own glass down. “Your cousin returns to Winterfell at the end of this week.”

Jon nods. Sansa is anxious to get home. He is unsure whether he is welcomed or not, whether Dany will allow him to follow, or if Visierion will come along. There are many questions now, and he is glad she has approached him on the matter.

“You must decide by then, although I would prefer it sooner, if you would have me for wife, or your cousin.” 

Wine goes flying through the air as his breath sputters. “What?”

“I see the way you look at her. I do not fault you for it- she is certainly beautiful. But I will not be a queen to share a husband, and I believe neither will she. You must choose a wife, Jon.” Daenerys gifts him with one of her rare, true smiles, and motions to his jerkin. “You should go change before the small council meets. I doubt any would approve of your raiment in wine-stained garments.”

Jon’s mind buzzes with images of the two of them all throughout the next three days, unsure of what this puzzle means for him.

Daenerys is a dragon, fire made flesh, with an understanding of the greater world and a determination to rule it. Her fiery passion is true and she loves her people. She fought beside him in the Long Night, raining dragonfire upon the Others and shattering the darkness with her brightness. But taking her to wife would never rid him of this city.

Sansa is the ice of winter, but also the warmth of spring. She would rather the rest of the world freeze over than loose her family again, would do anything to protect Bran and Arya. In the Long Night, she rallied the denizens of the North, protected them who came to Winterfell, gave food up for starving children, and saw them through until the sun.

He takes his meals in his rooms, and does not leave for anything but the small council meetings. The one time he sees Sansa, walking in the courtyard below  his window, her face is twisted, her brow furrowed, and she is rubbing her hands together as if they both may break if she does not. 

Jon had never thought of marriage to either of them, had not thought of marriage at all. Winterfell was Bran’s, Westeros was Dany’s. He claimed no castle, claimed no seat, only wanted to protect and serve the people that he could. He had no mind for politics or ruling, only for doing what was right.

One smile filled his visions, one perfect glance of fire, one dream that he had never thought to have. A home, a family, a wife, children to raise and teach and love. Her touches for him were soft, kind, and gentle, unlike the exterior she so often wore.

The answer was easy, and on the third day he told the queen.

“It does not surprise or hurt me in the least. There  _are_  other men in this world, Jon.” Daenerys cups his face in her hands. “Perhaps it is best that as I destroy  the old world, I leave behind Valyrian traditions as well.”

She sends him off to Sansa, who oversees her women as they pack up her chambers. “Your highness!”

Sansa is startled, and it makes sense. She has not seen him in days.

“All of you, out.” He commands, finally using the authority granted to him by his blood. The maids are gone in an instant, and the moment the door shuts he strides  to Sansa’s side.

He pulls her in his arms, close and tight against his chest. Jon whispers like a breeze in the godswood, “I choose you.”

“Oh,  _Jon_.” 

Sansa melts against him, lip to lip, hand to hair, heart to heart. Something tells him she knew of his ultimatum, that she knew he must make this choice. She rests her forehead against his own. “I was so worried you wouldn’t choose home.”

“I may not have chosen home, if it didn’t mean choosing you.” He said, a swell within his chest. They would be one from now until the next long night, and the long night after that, into the great beyond they would always be the same. “I love you, Sansa Stark, and you are mine as I am yours, and not even the Others can take that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out and fangirl about Jonsa and other ASOIAF/GOT goodness with me on [tumblr](http://jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


End file.
